Time and Chance Happens to Them All
by mamapranayama
Summary: It's a race against the clock when Sam gets hit with visions at the worst time possible and he must stop a murderer before he kills again. Set just after 2x02. Visions/hurt!Sam, drunk/angry/protective!Dean. Strong language. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

This fic is based on this prompt from the OhSam! comment fic meme by **ladykorana** :_ Sam has a vision at a really, really bad time (like driving at high speed or on dangerous road conditions, climbing on something high or treacherous, hunting something that could take advantage of his distraction, etc.) and gets himself seriously hurt as a result._

A/N: I want to give a big, huge thanks to Borgmama1of5 who worked her butt off to turn this into a readable story and for all of her input and suggestions. She's too awesome for words! hugs

**Time and Chance Happens to Them All **

_I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill; but time and chance happens to them all. (Ecclesiastes 9:11)_

**Part I**

Sam turned the hot water spigot all the way to full blast and gave it a few moments to heat up to near-scalding before he stepped into the shower.

Steam rose in heady plumes all about him. The hot water pounding into his back and shoulders was just what he needed to soothe tired muscles after the six-mile run he had just completed, and he sighed in contentment as they loosened up under the spray.  
>Despite the aching muscles, the exercise had been worth it. He had spent far too much of the last few weeks cooped up inside Bobby's house with too little to do and too much to think about, and getting out into the fresh morning air with the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon had been a welcome escape. All he had to do was concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other and his mind lulled itself into a blissful, thoughtless trance that went on for mile after mile.<p>

But now that the run was over there wasn't much he could do to get away from the reality that was his poor excuse of a life. He replayed the early morning scene in his head that had driven him from the house in the first place while he let his forehead rest on the shower wall.

_Dean stumbled in, reeking of whiskey and sex, waking Sam up as he slammed the door behind him. Sam had glanced at the clock and been glad that Bobby was on a hunt for a werewolf in Spokane, because if he'd heard Dean enter his home like that at 4 o'clock in the morning, there would have been words - lots of loud, unpleasant ones._

_As it was, Sam was annoyed enough because it was the third time this week that Dean had come in way past midnight, piss-ass drunk, but when Dean passed out with just his shoulders on his bed, the rest of his trashed body limply trailing on the carpet, Sam's irritation morphed into all-out anger. Dean was pissing his life away one bottle of Wild Turkey at a time, and as much as Sam knew his brother was wrecked over Dad's death, Sam was sick and tired of watching Dean's deliberate self-destruction. Dean was imploding, but as much as Sam wanted to help him, Dean pushed him away whenever he tried. Like Dean was the only one who'd ever lost someone close to them._

_It was enough to make Sam want to rip out his hair in frustration._

_"Dammit, Dean …" Sam had groaned as he got out of bed and hauled his brother's body the rest of the way onto his bed. "Is it too much for you to stay sober for one night?"_

_"Lee'me 'lone, Sam." Dean slurred back, half asleep, but alert enough to bat Sam's helping hands away. "Don' need ya … don' need your fuckin' help."_

_Sam didn't really care if Dean didn't want his help, he wasn't going to let him just lay there on the floor. So he dropped his brother unceremoniously on the bed without responding to the words that cut to the marrow. Instead he grabbed one of Dean's boots and started pulling it off. _

_Dean kicked back weakly. "Stop it…Goddammit … Said I don' need ya."_

_"Yeah, I heard you the first time. Just stop fucking squirming, will you?" Sam snapped back, roughly yanking off both boots and tossing them in the corner. Sam sighed heavily after that, assessing his brother and wondering how his liver could keep up with the crap he was doing to his body. "You can't keep doing this shit, Dean. Just tell me you didn't drive – you're gonna get yourself killed."_

_"Wha'ever …" Dean rolled over onto his stomach, his eyes closed and face mashing into the pillow. "I got a ride from … from … whatever her name so quit naggin' me for once – you're nuthin' but a pain in my ass and I don' need ya to tell me that I'm fucked up. So jus' go'way, will ya?"_

_Unable to sleep after that and too angry to stay in the same room as Dean, Sam slipped on his running shoes and left his snoring, inebriated brother in bed, taking off at a moderately fast clip once his feet left the last porch step. He hoped that the exertion of a long run would alleviate some of the frustration, grief, and desolation that had been burning inside of him since the night Dean and Sam had said their final goodbyes to their father and watched his body burn into a pile of ash._

Sam's skin was a bright red from the heat of the water as he snapped back to the present, unaware of how long he had been standing under the shower thinking of his father and then re-thinking his problems with Dean. Sam was trying his best to give his brother some space to deal with his grief alone, but it was all so exhausting and Sam was starting to believe that there wasn't anything he could do or say that might repair his and Dean's crumbling relationship.

Realizing that the hot water wouldn't last forever, Sam finally began to wash and was rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when a sharp barb of pain suddenly lanced through his head.

_Shit, shit, shit … _Sam groaned as the pain in his head increased, and his vision blurred. _Not now …_

The walls of the shower shifted as dazzling white lights blinded him. The rocketing pain felt as though someone had reached inside his skull and was squeezing his brain. He gasped and tried to reach for the shower wall to stop his descent to his knees, but his hand merely slipped along the wet tiles. His knees made painful contact with the shower drain and all he could do was grab his forehead where the pain concentrated and squeeze his eyes shut as images began to bombard him.

_She stood on the train platform and zipped her jacket over her blue hospital scrubs, checking her watch. It was 3:36 a.m. She sighed wearily, clearly exhausted after a long swing shift. She looked down the long tunnel, hoping that her train would come soon. She didn't like being alone at this time in the morning. Too many crazy, drunk people and a young woman alone at the train stop was an easy target._  
><em>She held her purse a little tighter when she heard the voices. There were at least four of them, young men, probably teens who got their kicks harassing or attacking people that had no skills at fighting back.<em>

_She looked down the train tunnel again. Where was that damn thing?_

_The boys were coming closer and she felt her heart accelerate as her nervousness ratcheted to a higher level. She could leave, but then she would miss her train and all she wanted to do was go home._

_The voices of the boys were closer now. As they approached they started hooting and whistling at her. One called, "Hey, shorty, nice ass," and they all laughed. To her immense relief, however, the kids walked on without doing anything more than cat-calling as they headed towards the stairs, passing under the orange, CTA sign for Pulaski Street._

_Alone again except for a homeless man passed out on a bench, she sighed, glad to see the backs of the boys. She looked down the tunnel as the sounds of the next train met her ears. The light from the engine greeted her, its wheels squealing loudly, as it barreled towards the stop._

_She took a step away from the edge of the platform and backed into something solid. She turned around to offer apologies, but her voice died on her lips. Angry blue eyes stared at her from under a dark hood. _

_Where had he come from?_

_She had little time to contemplate that as his hands were on her, grabbing her shoulders and shoving her backwards towards the rails. She had no chance to cry out before he pushed her over the edge of the platform, where she landed painfully onto the vibrating rails_  
><em>There was only time for her to look up and see the oncoming headlight of the train bearing down on her. <em>

_A scream caught in her throat, unable to escape as her world ended in a flash of blinding, white light and blood … lots and lots of blood …_  
>Sam gasped and violently shivered. The haze of the vision faded and he realized that he was freezing, the water had run cold and he had goosebumps blanketing his body. Shakily, he got up, fighting the pounding inside his brain and managed to turn the water off despite how much he was quaking.<p>

His teeth chattered uncontrollably while his body was wracked with chills as he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. It did little to warm him or give him any comfort for now he had a new problem – a girl was going to die and he had to stop it.

OOOOOO

Dean groaned and rolled onto his back. Bright light streamed in through the curtains and he cursed it vehemently while he threw an arm over his eyes to block it out. He was certain that his head was on track for a nuclear explosion and his stomach reminded him cruelly why he should never take shots of whiskey and tequila after downing 8 beers.

He had a vague memory of last night, but he couldn't recall exactly how he ended up in bed. He remembered Carla … or was it Carly … well, it was something that started with a 'C'… Not that it really mattered, he wouldn't be seeing her again anyway, but she had been sober enough to drive him home from the motel room they had rented for an hour. He just wished he could remember if it was good or not – or if he had even taken the time to put on a condom. He really didn't want to go through that series of shots again.

Sam was going to have a field day with this and Dean was not looking forward to the bitchface and condescending huffs of disapproval his brother was sure to hurl his way when they crossed paths today.

He lay there waiting for the riot in his head and stomach to quell a bit before he dared to raise himself up into a sitting position. Moaning, he forced his legs and feet over the edge of the bed and immediately regretted the movement as a spike of hot iron streaked through his head and the nausea increased ten-fold. He tried to breathe through it, to put his elbows on his knees while cradling his aching head, but it was of no use and he barely made it to the bathroom before expelling the entire contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Letting his head rest against the cool porcelain afterwards did little to make him feel any better, and he was half-expecting Sam to come by at any time with a big 'I told you so' to gloat over his misery. But thankfully, his brother seemed to be elsewhere.

It was some time before Dean summoned up the energy to get himself up off the floor and into the shower to wash off the stench from last night's fun. He couldn't help but feel pretty stupid for losing control like he had. Dad would have been furious with him for drinking so much and screwing irresponsibly … but Dad wasn't there anymore and he never would be.

That thought made the nausea creep back up his throat.

It wasn't until Dean was dried off and dressed that he realized just how quiet it was in the house. Sure, Bobby was away on a hunt, but Sam always made some noise as he moved about the creaky old house with his gigantic feet. Yet there was nothing. Sam was probably out on a walk, or had taken a car to the library, or was off in a corner brooding or crying or whatever it was that Sam did all day while Dean worked on fixing the Impala.

Dean wasn't worried about his Sam's absence however; he was actually quite relieved to have some time alone. Dean had come to dread hearing his brother's footsteps approach whenever he was under the car trying to get her back into working order. He knew Sam was the kind of guy that needed to talk about his feelings and that sort of sensitive crap, but Dean wasn't ready to think about even talking about dad yet, let alone to tell Sam how much it felt like his world had fallen apart or how_ wrong_it felt to even still be alive And his father's last words were still too fresh in his mind … and Dean would have the burden of keeping them to himself for the rest of his life. There was no way he would let Sam know what Dad had said.

Coffee and Tylenol became Dean's next priorities and he prayed that Sam had made a pot before heading out. He stumbled his way down the steps and to the kitchen, disappointed to find the coffee carafe empty. He started a fresh pot before finding the bottle of painkillers and dry-swallowing two pills.

Once he had some caffeine in his system, Dean headed outside to get a good look at his car. He was angry at himself all over again for taking a crow-bar to the trunk and windows – even if at the time it had felt cathartic to release some of the pent up rage locked inside him, he lamented the fact that it pushed back the car's restoration by at least two weeks. Again … Dad would have torn him about eight different new ones if he had seen what Dean had done.

Dean quickly pushed that thought from his head; he didn't want to think about Dad. He had a job to do.

Steadily he pounded out the dents in the trunk and then started patching the holes with mesh and Bondo. It was dusk by the time he realized that Sam hadn't come out to nag him about anything all day and he started to wonder where Sam had gone and why he wasn't back yet. Sure, Sam was an adult and had every right to go out to wherever he pleased, but usually Sam would leave a note telling Dean where he was, or call to let Dean know when he'd be back. But his brother hadn't done either of those things and alarm bells began to shriek in Dean's head.

He pulled his phone from his back pocket and speed-dialed Sam's number. It went straight to voicemail, but Dean wasn't too surprised, Sam often turned off his phone if he was in the library because the prudish head librarian was a stickler against cell phone use.  
>Maybe Dean had missed the note?<p>

He abandoned the car and headed back to the house, going straight to the bedroom where Sam most likely would have left any note. Dean's eyes caught a flash of white on the nightstand. Funny, he hadn't seen it that morning, but then again, he had been pretty hung-over and had been concentrating more on not spewing than looking for any note Sam might have left.

Quickly he grabbed the paper, and read the words scrawled in Sam's handwriting.

_I had to go – Don't have time to explain. _  
><em>Call me, <em>  
><em>Sam<em>

"Little Bitch." He groused. Not that he could blame Sam for taking off for a while, Dean wasn't exactly good company, but he could have at least told him where he was going.

Fuming, Dean tried Sam's number again. It went straight to voicemail once more, but this time he left a message:

"I'm so gonna kick your ass, Sam. Call me back."

OOOOOOO

Sam felt guilty for leaving without Dean, but his brother was still passed out in the exact same position as last night, with drool threading a thin line from his mouth. He tried to wake Dean, practically shouted at him, but his brother hadn't responded, and Sam was already running out of time if he was going to rescue the girl from his vision and he didn't have the luxury of sobering Dean up enough to take him along.

He'd Googled the train platform signs and determined that he had ten hours to get to Chicago and meet the woman at the station, and it was a nine hour drive. It was an uncomfortably slim margin.

He realized a few hours into his drive that the battery was dead in his cell phone. Dean would now not only be pissed about Sam taking off without him, but for not calling as well.

However, Sam had plenty of ammunition to combat any arguments his brother might have about him taking off alone. With Dean's blood alcohol level being somewhere in the range of 90 proof, he would be more of a liability than an asset. On top of that, Dean had said it himself, _"Go 'way, Sam."_

Sam unconsciously pressed harder on the gas pedal just thinking about Dean's words to him that morning. He kinda hoped that Dean was enjoying one hell of a hangover right now.

Somewhere between Minnesota and Wisconsin it started to rain. Sam normally wouldn't have minded except the truck he had taken from Bobby's salvage yard was missing its driver's side window, and rain was pelting him in the face. Certainly that was not the worst of the old pick-up truck's problems: the passenger door didn't open no matter how hard it was pulled, it guzzled gas faster than a hog at a trough, and big, black plumes of smoke billowed out of the noisy exhaust pipe. Worst of all, though, was that it had a top speed of 55, going any faster resulted in the engine overheating – a frustrating predicament when there was so little time for him to prevent the events of his vision from coming true.

But Sam was a beggar and didn't have the luxury of choosing his ride, he was just grateful that there was a working vehicle at Bobby's at the time he needed to leave. Still, he missed the Impala. Its reliable, steady rumble under his legs with his brother behind the wheel would have made this journey a little less difficult and lonely.

Thinking of the car made Sam begin to regret leaving Dean behind even more. It was getting dark already and he still had another 200 miles to go. He needed gas and he could pick up a car charger for his phone when he stopped at the next station. He could call Dean and fill him in on the details.

Then again, maybe Dean was glad to have him gone.

After all, Dean had told him to go away. Even though he was drunk, he had made it quite clear that he was sick of Sam constantly trying to get him to talk about Dad – he was probably seeing Sam's absence as a blessing.

However, Sam knew that he should call Dean anyway and let him know where he was, even if Dean wouldn't care if Sam had fallen off the face of the planet.

The rain increased as Sam watched for an upcoming gas station. It was getting difficult to see through the rain sheeting the windshield and the wipers weren't doing crap to push the torrents of falling water out of his field of view.

He could feel a headache creeping up, triggered by the blinding headlights of oncoming traffic glaring off the droplets of water cascading down the windshield. He shrugged the pain off as he concentrated on the road, needing to squint in order to see through the pounding rainstorm.

Another set of headlights filled his view, but this time, they didn't pass. The pain in his head suddenly became unbearable as the light intensified, filling every portion of his vision and exploding upward into his brain in a magnificent and brilliant flash brighter than lightning.  
>Sam's foot reacted before his brain and stomped on the brake, but much like everything else he had tried to do as of late, it was too little too late, and the truck careened off the slick pavement, tires squealing as they fishtailed wildly, momentum unstoppable.<p>

He never saw the tree nor heard the crunch of metal when it impacted with wood as the sights and sounds of the vision gripped him tight.

Everything after that was swallowed up in darkness.

TBC ...


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thanks for reading and for all of the reviews. Here's the next part:_

**Part II**

Dean quickly went from being irritated that Sam had taken off without telling him to outright furious when his brother still hadn't come home by midnight. Multitudes of scenarios flooded through Dean's head, though he wasn't to the point of panicking. Sam was a big boy.

But Dean could admit to himself that he was concerned.

Had Sam gone to a bar?

Unlikely … that was more Dean's thing than Sam's.

Had he found a girl to hook up with? That was laughable.

Maybe he had just needed some time away. Dean had flashes of Sam helping him to bed last night and recalled saying things … Things he couldn't clearly remember, but which he knew had been pretty shitty. Who could blame Sam for leaving when Dean had been such a dickhead?

But Sam just taking off like this reminded him way too much of all of the times his little brother ran away, trying to escape the Winchester way of life.

Dean emotions were ping-ponging between guilt and fury when he heard the back door open and shut.

That had to be Sam finally coming in.

" 'Bout damned time you got back Sa- …" Dean raised his voice as he hurried into the kitchen to lay into his brother, but his words died on his lips the moment he saw Bobby standing in the doorway.

"Bobby? Thought you wouldn't be back for a few more days."

"Well, hello to you too, Dean," Bobby replied dryly with more than a little bit of tired irritation, dumping his bag on the floor. "What's with the shouting?"

"Sorry … I thought you were Sam. He took off this morning and didn't bother to tell me where he went."

Bobby sighed heavily. "You guys have a fight or something?"

"Why do you always assume we've been fighting?" Dean asked, a little put-off.

"Because you knuckleheads are always fighting."

Dean shrugged. "No … at least I don't think we did."

"What do ya mean you don't think you did?"

Dean had the good sense to at least look a little ashamed. "Well … I may have had a few too many drinks … and I don't remember much of last night …"

"So you're getting shit-faced until you black out now?" Bobby turned a mean eye on Dean, half out of anger and half out of concern.

"No … I mean … it was just …" Dean babbled, feeling about two inches tall under Bobby's reproachful glare.

Bobby grumbled under his breath. "Damned idjit …" He then pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.

"I already tried calling Sam. It went straight to …"

"Voicemail," Bobby finished for him when his call to Sam didn't go through. "Well, shit. He didn't leave a note?"

"Yeah, but he didn't give me much to go on, only that he was going somewhere. He wrote that he wanted me to call him, but he won't answer his damn phone. I don't know where he could have gone, but that old truck you left us is missing too, so he must have taken it."

"Maybe he just needed to blow off some steam. Just give him some time … He'll be back."

"Yeah …" Dean half-heartedly agreed, hoping that Bobby was right even though the acid churning in his gut was telling him otherwise.

OOOOOO

_It was quiet this early in the morning and she loved running at this time of day the most. The cool air tickled her skin as she made her way through the park, her breath coming out in steamy puffs like a locomotive chugging along._

_She didn't feel apprehensive about being in the dark or being alone, she loved it. With the sun just beginning to lighten the sky and the absence of other people, it was just perfect, in her opinion._

_The path in front of her was clear, no other joggers, bikers, or pedestrians to get in her way. Feeling loose, she picked up the pace, putting extra effort into turning her feet over faster and faster._

_The wind was at her back and it was all downhill from here. She figured she might be making her best time ever as she reached the final mile of her morning route. Everything was perfect until she suddenly stumbled. Something had tripped her and she was falling to the ground before she could stop her momentum, her hands flying out before her as she fell to the hard pavement._

_Stunned, wrists and knees throbbing, her heart beating frantically, she turned to see just what it was that she had tripped on, but she didn't expect to see a man. _

_He had come from nowhere. Blue eyes burned at her from under a hood and then a flash of silver extended from his hand. She never had the chance to cry out before he was thrusting the knife over and over and over again, piercing the wall of her diaphragm, making it impossible for her make a sound as blood filled her lungs. Her eyes wide with terror, the last image she saw was the name-tag embroidered on his coat._

_"Nathan,"_Sam mumbled incoherently, his head pounding murderously while bile bubbled up from his stomach. He groaned, feeling something hard underneath his forehead. Moving sent electric currents of pain racing through his growing consciousness.

He tried to force his body to react to the commands of his brain, but everything was a jumbled mess of hurt and confusion.

Where was he? What had happened?

Just as he thought those questions, Sam felt a hand on his shoulder. "Hey … Buddy … You okay?"

He was unable to stifle the moan that issued from deep within his throat as he forced stubborn eyelids to open and attempted to lift his head. Something wet and sticky made it near impossible for him to open his eyes completely, but turning his sight to the direction of the voice, he was able to make out the fuzzy image of a man beside him.

"Hey … Try not to move."

"Wha'?" He tried to ask, but speaking only made the pain in his head ratchet up another notch.

"Oh my God … He's bleeding all over the place." A woman's voice cut in.

"Marie …" The man spoke to another blurry figure by his side, trying to calm the woman with a soothing, yet urgent tone. "Call an ambulance."

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, voice shaking.

"Just call 911, Marie. I'll stay with him." The man gently took hold of Sam's shoulder and eased him backwards until his head was resting against what he now recognized as the headrest. He was still in the truck, he realized. He must have crashed, but his disoriented mind couldn't recall how that had happened … only the images of the man with the hooded coat and the knife coming at the woman jogger came to mind.

"Nathan." Sam wasn't even aware that he had spoken aloud until the man by his side asked him about it.

"Nathan? Is that your name?"

Sam tried to shake his head and was punished with a stab of pain for his efforts. "No … S-Sam …"

"Okay, Sam. Try to keep still. We're getting help for you."

"Wha ... What 'appened?"

"We saw your truck go off the road. You must have hydroplaned and hit a tree. Looks like your head hit the steering wheel pretty hard."  
>A feeling of urgency overcame him. He needed to be somewhere, but where had he been going? He tried to sort it all out in his mind, fighting both the relentless pain in his head and his stomach's desire to retch its contents up. Slowly images of a woman, a train, a man with a hood and knife … The woman running in the park and the terror in her eyes … He'd been going to Chicago! - There was no time to waste, he had to keep going, had to save them!<p>

The man in the hood, he must be connected somehow to Sam … to the demon.

Sam wasn't going to make it in time if he didn't get his ass moving right now.

"Whoa – whoa – what are you doing?" The good Samaritan asked as Sam tried to push his way out of the truck.

"Can't … stay … g-gotta … gotta keep going …" Sam managed to half-slide, half-fall out onto the gravel of the road's shoulder, landing on his hands and knees. Rain pelted his head, cascaded down his collar while blood and water mixed to blind him. He fought valiantly against the nausea that assailed him, but the effort was in vain and he started heaving violently.

Hands found their way around his shoulders and he was vaguely aware of flashing lights and sirens, but it was all buzzing background noise against the pounding in his temples and the involuntary contractions of his abdomen.

Sam's stomach finally finished its reversal. Someone was talking to him but the words weren't making any sense. He attempted to right himself, sitting back on his heels while trying not to hyperventilate, but the world was tilting on its axis, blurring in and out. He could feel his body swaying and the only thing holding him upright were the hands under his armpits, but even those were not enough to keep the darkness at bay and everything went blissfully silent and black again.

OOOOOO

Dean chewed his lip and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying unsuccessfully to distract himself from his headache. It was well past midnight and Sam still wasn't back.

Bobby had started making calls to his contacts in town, but no one had seen or heard from his brother. Calls to Sam's cell still were going straight to voicemail, and after his last attempt to contact Sam Dean had nearly hurled his phone into the wall out of anger and anxiety.  
>Bobby walked over to Dean where he sat at the kitchen table and poured another cup of coffee into his empty mug.<p>

"I just don't get it, Bobby. Why won't he answer his phone when he told me to call him?"

"Got me … maybe he ran out of juice on his phone …" Bobby sat down in the chair opposite Dean, looking contemplative, as if he had an idea, but was unwilling to voice it out loud.

"What?" Dean demanded to know what Bobby was thinking.

"It's just a guess … but … what if Sam saw something? You know … like a … a vision?" Bobby had only recently been brought into the secret about Sam's psychic abilities, and he hedged around the issue, as though voicing it aloud would send Dean over the edge.

Yeah, Dean hated to admit it, but his brother's psychic crap still scared the shit out of him. _Save Sam, Dean … or you might have to kill him._

Dean shoved that memory violently aside in order to focus on the present. "He would have told me, Bobby."

"Unless …" Bobby started.

Dean glared. "Unless, what?"

"Well … you did say you had been pretty drunk … enough to have little recall of what you did. Perhaps he couldn't tell you … or he tried and you just don't remember."

Dean closed his eyes, feeling like a total turd for getting so wasted last night. Bobby might have a point about his drinking and it certainly didn't make him feel any better, or less worried about his brother.

Dean was still contemplating his own worthlessness when the phone rang.

OOOOOO

The only thing worse than waking with a screaming headache was waking to a fuzzy image of his big brother wearing a 'I'm gonna kick your ass for making me worry about you' face looming over him.

"You with me, Sam?" Dean asked. Sam pried his eyes open as far as they would allow and tried to focus.

"Dean?" Sam croaked, his voice cracking under the strain that even that small effort caused him.

" 'Bout time." Dean leaned back with a sigh.

"What … Where am I?" Sam's words slurred as he strained to recall what had happened.

"You're in a hospital in frickin' Wisconsin, Sam."

"Wisconsin? What am I … oh …" Memory slammed into his brain like a Mac truck.

He was overcome yet again with a sense of urgency, but he was so tired and everything hurt and he didn't think he had to strength to even push himself up. "Gotta get to Chicago."

"Why? What's going on with you? You just take off and then Bobby gets a call from the Wisconsin State Police saying that they had a wrecked truck that belonged to him and oh, by the way, the driver's in the hospital with a cracked skull."

"Cracked skull?"

"Yeah, Sam … a fractured skull … You've been in and out of it for the last two days."

Sam's heart dropped to his stomach and he felt nauseous. "Two days?" He was too late. Those two girls … He hadn't saved them … And the man with the hood was still out there.

"We gotta go to Chicago, Dean. We gotta stop him …" Sam plaintively began to explain.

"What are you talking about? Who's in Chicago?"

"I saw him, Dean," Sam gulped, pushing the bile that had risen from his stomach back down his throat.

"A vision?" Dean asked, lowering his voice, making sure no one could overhear their conversation.

"Yeah …" Sam closed his eyes, seeing the events play back in his mind. "There was a guy … but he had a hood on and I couldn't see his face. He had a name-tag stitched onto his coat, like someone that worked in a garage or a shop. He attacked two women, Dean, the first one I saw while I was at Bobby's … He pushed her front of a train at a subway platform in Chicago. The other one was jogging and he just came out of nowhere and stabbed her. I don't know … each time … they never saw him coming. It was like he appeared out of thin air."

"So … you think he's got some kind of psychic thing?"

"Maybe … I don't know, but we must be connected somehow. Maybe he's like me and Max …"

"No, Sam. He's killing people and we've gone over this before … You're not like Max."

Sam closed his eyes again. His head hurt too much for him to really dwell on the possible ramifications of finding another psychic like himself and how they all might be involved with the demon that killed their mother and maybe even their father. It was all too much and it made his head feel even worse.

One thing was for certain though, they had to find the hooded man and they had to stop him one way or another. "We gotta go to Chicago. If he got away with murdering those women, he's going to try again."

"Whoa now … You're not going anywhere, Sam!"

"Dean, I'll be fine. I've had worse."

"No, you haven't," Dean pointedly told him. "You have a fucking _skull fracture_. God, do you have any idea how worried sick I was?"

Sam scoffed sarcastically, "Yeah right …"

"Just what is that supposed to mean?" Dean drew in closer, a hard edge to his voice, "And what were you thinking just taking off like that on your own to go chase this guy down?"

Sam suddenly found a little reserve of energy to fight Dean back on this point, raising his head up off the pillow despite the surge of pain that coursed through his temples. "I had to, Dean. I knew what was going to happen to that girl and I had to stop it in time and you were too drunk and passed out for me to even wake you. I'm sorry I was in a hurry to leave, but I didn't have a choice." And just like that, the wind went out of Sam's sails and he deflated, wearily flopping back onto the pillow, breathing heavily as a wave of dizziness sent his senses swirling into a new round of nausea. "I wanted you to come … I did … but you were in no shape for it and I figured … well… that you wouldn't care if I was gone anyway."

"What would make you think that?"

"Because I'm a pain in your ass and you don't need me, remember? You told me as much."

"I don't remember that, Sam. And you know it's not true … I was drunk, I didn't know what I was saying."

Sam actually forgot the pain coursing in his head for a split second and propped himself back on his elbows, raising his voice. "Alcohol doesn't make you lie, Dean. I know how you react to it … It loosens your tongue and lets the things you won't say when you're sober come out."

Dean swallowed visibly, his face wavering between shame and still-simmering anger. However, the moment Sam reacted as acids in his stomach start to church, it changed.

"Gonna be sick …" Sam informed his stricken brother who quickly flip-flopped from contrite to concern. Dean grabbed a basin from the other side of the hospital room and was just able to help Sam sit up before he started to hurl.

Dean reached out and tentatively gave Sam's back a pat when the vomiting eased. It wasn't an apology for Dean's inebriation nor was it forgiveness for Sam taking off for Chicago on his own without any kind of back-up, but it was a peace offering nonetheless, and Sam shared a brief glance with Dean that said 'thanks'.

"So … you gonna rescue me from this place?" Sam asked.

"Not tonight. You need rest."

"But, Dean …"

"No 'buts,' Sam. You want me to help you catch this guy, then you got to get at least one more night's rest."

Sam felt a little relief, at least Dean was willing to entertain the thought of getting him out of the hospital tomorrow so they could track the man in his visions down.

"I've been out for two days, Dean," Sam yawned, "Don't see why I need more sleep." Even as he said that, Sam felt a tug of weariness come over him, then he saw why – there was a morphine pump connected to the IV sticking out of his arm and Dean must have pressed the button that released the next dose for him.

"Deeeean? Did you just drug me?" Sam tried to give his brother a pissed-off face, but the pain was lessening rapidly, a cottony ease filling his mind that made being angry at his brother for doping him up impossible. His eyelids were pulled shut by heavy anchors and it felt so good to be free of the pain and anxiousness that plagued him.

Dean's sly grin was the last thing he saw before he was pulled under once again.

OOOOOOO

It was a tight squeeze, but somehow all three men managed to fit into Bobby's front seat. Dean took the middle while Bobby drove his truck, and Sam pressed himself up against the passenger-side door, his head resting against the window as they pulled out of the hospital parking lot.

"You doing okay there, Sam?" Dean asked, seeing the pained expression on his brother's face whenever the vehicle hit a bump in the road.

"I'm fine," Sam obviously lied. Dean knew all of Sam's evasive expressions, but his brother was doggedly determined that they should get to Chicago and find the man in his visions.

Dean still wasn't comfortable with all of this, with his brother's emerging abilities and what they meant, but so far, his visions hadn't been wrong, even if they still freaked the hell out of Dean.

But what worried Dean more was the fact that Sam still had a concussion with a crack in his head and shouldn't have left the hospital so early. Sure, the doctor assured him that the injury wasn't life-threatening, only a small, linear fracture that would heal on its own, still, Sam had finally succeeded in breaking his hard head and going on a hunt only a day after Sam woke up didn't sit well with Dean.

However Sam's head injury hadn't changed his stubbornness and he had insisted on checking out AMA. Dean had tried to sell Sam on Dean and Bobby going to Chicago in his stead and looking into the whole affair, leaving Sam in the hospital to recover, but that idea was quickly vetoed by Sam and it was just as well … His brother more than likely would have simply snuck out behind them, stolen a car and found his way to Chicago anyway, and the last thing Dean wanted was Sam behind the wheel of any vehicle after what had just happened. At least this way Dean could at keep an eye on his brother before he did anything stupid … again.

Sam slept for most of the ride to Chicago, only waking when Bobby parked the truck in front of a motel room. He was extra slow in getting out of the truck and swayed slightly on his feet, causing Dean to instinctively grasp Sam's elbow to steady him before he fell over completely.

"You okay?" Dean asked once more, not expecting an honest answer.

Sam shrugged off Dean's help with his usual irritation, trying to prove that he would be physically capable of doing his part on this hunt.  
>Sam and Bobby started researching once they were inside the room. "His name might be Nathan – it was on the name tag of his coat. It looked like a uniform coat that a mechanic or service worker might wear."<p>

"Well, this should be easy, " Dean grumbled sarcastically, "All we have to do is find a guy named Nathan that wears a coat with a hood to work – piece of cake considering it's a city with over 2 million people in it."

"I know it's vague and I couldn't see the guy's face ..." Sam spoke while rubbing his forehead. Dean took this as a sign that his brother needed some more painkillers, so he reached into his duffel and pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen then tossed it to Sam who tried to catch it, but missed ungracefully. Normally, Sam wouldn't have had any problem catching something and that worried Dean even more.

"Smooth, Sam …" he teased, "You know, Bobby and I can handle this. Maybe you should just sit this one out. We'll find him."

Sam popped two of the pills into his mouth and swallowed before speaking. "He might be one of the children like me that the demon talked about. I need to know … I need to talk to him, find out why he's doing this."

"And what? Talk him out of killing any more women? We tried talking to Max and look where that got us."

"So, you're saying we should kill him?" Sam's question hung heavy in the air, striking Dean to the core. Dad's last words rattled through his skull again and he had to shake his head to clear them out.

"No … I'm just saying that reasoning with him is most likely not going to work."

"Dean might be right for once here, Sam," Bobby interjected.

"For once?" Dean scoffed.

"Then what do we do with him if we find him?" Sam asked

"We turn him over to the police." Bobby suggested. Dean and Sam both looked at the older man as if he had grown a second head. "What? He's a human, we're not going to kill him, but we can't just let him go, so we let the police take care of him, at least then he'll be in jail and won't be able to hurt anyone else."

"But like you said," Bobby continued, "we got to find him first."

There was a pregnant pause that fell over the men in the room until Sam spoke. "Maybe we can narrow the search down."

"How?" Dean asked warily.

"Well … Max was the same age as me and his mother died in a fire just like ours. Maybe we should start there, look up any Nathans that were born 23 years ago with a mother that died in a fire and who might work a blue-collar job in the city. We should also look into finding out the identities of the women in my visions."

The three of them got to work after that and six empty coffee cups, a stack of discarded burger bags, and two hours later, Sam looked up from his laptop .

"Well … I haven't had much luck tracking this Nathan down, there's just too many that fit our search parameters, but I've made some headway finding out who the women were."

"What you got?" Bobby asked, tossing away another coffee cup.

"I looked through the Chicago Tribune," Sam winced, his head still giving him grief, "The woman I saw in the subway was Amy Shannon, a nurse that worked at the hospital a couple of blocks away. The police ruled her death an accident and haven't connected it in any way to the murder of Bridget VanHouten, the woman in the park. I dug a little further and found something interesting though. Both of them grew up in the same neighborhood and both graduated from the same high school in 2001."

"That's a little bit too much of a coincidence." Dean pointed out.

Sam nodded. "Yeah … I don't think the guy in the hood chose these girls at random. He might have known them."

OOOOOOO

No matter how many times they did this, it never really got any easier for Sam. Flashing their fake police badges at the building super, Sam and Dean were taken to the apartment that used to belong to Amy Shannon, the young woman whose life had come to an abrupt end under the wheels of a subway train.

Sam tried to push the memory of that vision from his aching head, but it continued to replay with crystal clarity. He felt a gnawing guilt over her death, he should have been able to save her and he just might have if it hadn't been for that second vision and a very bad case of timing. His feelings of culpability were exacerbated as he took a look around her place, saw the pictures with her family, searched through her personal possessions.

Not only had he failed her, but now he was invading her privacy and the space she would be occupying if he had only been able to stop the hooded man in time.

Dean didn't appear to have any hang-ups about searching the place for clues and it was while Sam was standing in the middle of her bedroom, looking at a portrait of the woman as she had been as a little girl that his brother gave a shout from across the hall.

"Hey, Sam! Come take a look at this."

Sam tore his eyes away from the picture and headed back towards Dean who was sitting on the dead woman's couch and flipping through the pages of a blue and yellow hard-cover book.

"What's that?" Sam asked.

"It's what I like to call 'jackpot'" Dean grinned and held up the book, waggling it back and forth. Sam could read the cover and eyes widened.

"Lane Tech High School … her senior yearbook?"

"Yup … Here, have a look-see." Dean tossed the book at Sam and Sam managed to catch it, pleased with himself that his coordination was starting to come back, even if the miserable headache felt like it might stick with him forever.

He flipped through the book, finding Amy Shannon's picture among the senior portraits, and two pages after that he came across the portrait of Bridget VanHouten. Going back to the beginning of the senior pictures, he started a new search, this one for any boy named Nathan. There happened to be just two: Nathan Anderson, a geeky-looking kid with a poufy mess of curly, blond hair and thick glasses, and a Nathan Fulgam - not pictured.

Nathan Anderson didn't fit Sam's impression of the man they were looking for. Though he hadn't clearly seen the man in the hood's face, he remembered seeing his eyes – how dark and angry they were – and he hadn't worn glasses. Nathan Anderson looked as though he couldn't see two feet without those specs on.

"Nathan Fulgam … "Sam muttered, "that must be our guy."

"You sure?" Dean asked, getting up from the couch and peering over Sam's shoulder as he paged through the book.

"No, but he's worth checking out." Sam insisted just as Dean's phone rang.

"Yeah?" Dean answered quickly.

Sam could hear Bobby's muffled voice. Bobby had dropped Sam and Dean at this apartment while he had gone to Bridget VanHouten's to investigate. He apparently had found something as well.

"Really? Yeah, we found one too …" Dean replied over the phone, "What page? Okay, we'll look … Yeah, bye."

Dean hung up and raised his eyebrows while he looked at Sam. "Guess what?"

"Bobby found a yearbook at the other victim's apartment." Sam had already deduced.

"Good guess, Brainiac … He says to check out page 91."

Sam turned to the page and his eyes landed on a series of candid shots taken at the school. One photo in particular caught his attention right away for it was encircled with a heart drawn in pink pen. Captioned under it were the words: 'Best friends forever, Bridget, Amy, and Sara.'

"Best friends … there are two of the victims here … but there's one more." Sam mused aloud then leafed through more pages of photos finding several others that featured the same three girls. "They certainly were popular … And it looks like they did just about everything together, cheerleading, volleyball, honor society, choir …" Sam went back to the portrait pages and found the third girl in the pictures with the other victims. "Here … the last girl … her name's Sara Haven."

Dean met Sam's eyes and knew what Sam was already thinking. "And she's his next target."

_More to come soon ..._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thanks again for all of the alerts, favorites and reviews. There was supposed to be one more chapter after this, but I've decided to post the last two chapters as one. Thanks for reading you all are awesome! :)_

**Part III**

Dean chanced another surreptitious glance at Sam while they waited outside Amy Shannon's apartment for Bobby to pick them up. Despite Sam's regular and somewhat peeved assurances than he was 'fine,' his brother still looked like he'd been used as a punching bag and the goose egg on his forehead was no smaller than it had been in the hospital. A mottled mess of reds and purples peeked out from under the bright, white bandage that covered the six stiches he had needed and given the way his eyes squinted under the light of the overcast day, Dean figured that he must have one monster of a headache. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and Dean couldn't hold back the, "You sure you're up to this?" question he needed to ask.

"I told you already … _I'm fine_." Sam sighed wearily, "We need to find this Nathan kid before anyone else gets hurt. I … we need to know why he's doing this … If he has some kind of psychic power, and what he might know about yellow-eyes."

"I don't like this …" Dean muttered.

Sam snapped back, rubbing his forehead and squeezing his eyes shut. "You think I do?"

"No, I just think we need to go back to the motel, let you get some rest before we go knocking this kid's door down. You look like crap and I don't want you to pass out on us."

Sam dropped his hands, exasperated. "Dean …" He sighed, rolling his eyes.

"No … It's bad enough that I let you leave the hospital …"

Sam scoffed then winced again, his headache clearly getting worse. "Oh you _let_me, huh?"

"You know … if you didn't already have a head injury …" Dean's rant was cut off when Sam's wince turned into a grimace and his hands flew to his head , grabbing fistfuls of shaggy hair with an intense groan of pain. There was barely enough time for Dean to grab his brother's arm in order to save Sam from making out with the sidewalk as his knees buckled under him, his weight collapsing into Dean.

"Shit! Sam?" Dean hung on, easing Sam to the ground. Fear blossomed in Dean's chest.

"Sammy?" he asked again, getting no response from Sam. He had to bend down to get a look at Sam's face hidden underneath dark bangs and was worried and relieved at the same time to see Sam's eyes staring blankly ahead, tracking something only he could see.

Dean had been afraid that his brother'd had some kind of stroke or seizure thanks to his concussion, but now he knew that this was completely unrelated to Sam's head injury. This was a vision, and by the looks of it, it was a doozy.

Dean sat there on the sidewalk for what felt like an eternity though it may have only been a few moments, ignoring the stares of curious pedestrians. When Sam gasped suddenly and grabbed hold of Dean's jacket, gripping his arm in a way that spoke of pain and urgency, Dean knew that the vision had finally passed and his brother was back in the real world with him.

"Dean …" Sam wheezed, breathing heavily as if he had just run a marathon. "H-he's there … he's at her house … waiting for her." He stuttered then moaned again, grabbing his head, "Gahhh."

"Sam …"

"No … It's okay … I'm okay …"

"No you're not!"

Sam shook his head tentatively, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. "We don't have time to argue, Dean. Call Bobby, we need to get to Sara Haven's apartment right now!"

Dean would have argued further, but Bobby was already pulling up to the curb.

"Dean? What happened?" Bobby asked, jumping out of the truck and joining them on the sidewalk.

Sam opened his eyes and hit Dean with a plaintive look. "Please." He practically begged.

"Fine, but I'm not letting you outta my sight, ya hear?"

Once Dean and Bobby managed to get Sam on his feet and into the truck, Bobby broke almost every traffic law while Sam explained what was going on and what he'd seen in this latest vision. After finding the address for Sara Haven's apartment with Dean's phone, Sam sat wedged in the middle of the bench seat with his head in his hands while his Dean chewed his lip in anticipation. None of them knew what to expect once they got there, but they all knew that they were running out of time.

OOOOO

The pain was unrelenting. Visions on their own felt like getting a hammer to the head, but getting one on top of a fractured skull was unquestionably the worst pain he had ever experienced. Sam gingerly cradled his head in his hands while splotches of color obscured his vision and danced before his eyes. All the while he warred with the gut-churning nausea attacking him, refusing to allow his stomach to expel the meager contents he had managed thus far to keep down that day.

If the pain wasn't enough to remind of the urgent nature of their mission, then the running replay of the vision that had swamped his brain was. He could still see it clear as day in his mind_:_

_Juggling several plastic grocery bags, the woman propped her purse between the door frame and her hip while maneuvering her keys, opening first the top deadbolt and then the doorknob lock. Once inside, she dropped the bags while turning around to relock the door. She flipped on the light and carried her groceries into the small kitchen, efficiently putting the milk and yogurt into the refrigerator and placing the rest of her purchases on the cabinet shelves. _

_She walked into the living room and flopped down on the flowered couch. Bending over, she unlaced her shoes and kicked them aside before she settled back against the couch with a tired and resigned sigh._

_"You can see me." A harsh voice spoke into her ear and simultaneously a hooded man appeared sitting next to the woman who jolted up, wide-eyed with shock. He clamped a hand firmly over her mouth before she could scream, smiling when he saw the fear that flared in her eyes._

_"Remember me?" He asked her. Recognition flashed in her eyes. "You can't hurt me now. They remembered too, you know. Amy and Bridget … with their last breaths, they saw who I was."_

He leaned forward and took a deep whiff of her hair, smelling the shampoo that still lingered in it. "Would it have hurt you to say hello to me once or twice? To have spoken my name, not what you called me as a joke? The three of you, so pretty, so perfect … He was right, this is what you deserve." The metal blade of the butcher knife reflected the overhead light as it arced up and then plunged into her chest … The woman's body convulsed in spasms as the hooded man stabbed again and again …

Although he wished he could just push away the gruesome image, Sam replayed it to search for clues about Nathan's physic power. His statement, "You can see me" had to signify something, and suddenly Sam realized Nathan was using his psychic powers – or whatever he had – to make himself invisible.

The ambient light in the vision indicated late afternoon, and it was 3:40 pm already. Sam knew he had only a limited amount of time before this vision too came to its ghastly fruition.

Bobby's driving did little to relieve the pressure and pain throbbing in his head and each bump and swerve sent a burning stab through his brain. It wasn't until the vehicle came to an abrupt stop and Sam felt a touch on his back that he ventured to lift his head from his hands and look up.

"We're here." Bobby announced gruffly.

"Stay here," Dean ordered Sam as he checked his handgun, making sure it was loaded properly.

"What?" Sam asked his voice raising even as his head signaled that making such a noise would only exacerbate the pain. "No … I'm going."

"Sam …"

"I'll just follow, and you know it.." Sam countered. Dean might be worried for him, but Sam didn't have the luxury of catering to his brother's anxiety over his health. He had to put an end to this … He hadn't been able to stop the other two murders, but he could stop this. If he didn't, what was the point of the visions?

Dean rolled his eyes. "God … I swear you are the most stubborn, son of a-"

"You girls done chit-chatting yet or can we just get this over with already?" Bobby interrupted the heated exchange for which Sam was eternally grateful, Sam and Dean both nodded, trading pointed glares even as they each hid a weapon in their waistbands and exited the truck, following Bobby to the apartment building.

OOOOOO

He walked up to the door, running his hand over the number, satisfied that he had the right place. It wasn't difficult for him to break in, his job at the locksmith's shop made it a simple task and he was inside in moments. It was the waiting that was the hard part.

He studied the orderly apartment, deciding where he should wait. When he walked into the kitchen, he was pleased to see the butcher block full of knives sitting next to the sink. He pulled one slowly from the block and admired the silvery shine as it reflected in the low light of the afternoon streaming in through the window.

Cradling his newly acquired weapon in his hand he strolled into the living room, his eyes skimming over the photos that lined the wall, his gaze landing on a picture that transported him back. Three best friends smiled at him, their arms wrapped around each other. He felt his soul darken as the picture reminded him of the pain that those girls had caused him.

But finally Amy and Bridget had gotten what they deserved … and his face was the last image they would ever see. And it would be the same for Sara. The anticipation was almost unbearable. Turning the knife over in his hand, he tested it against his thumb, one drop of his blood sliding along the honed edge, thrillingly beautiful, and he imagined what it would look like sticking out of the chest of that bitch, Sara.

Finally, after tonight it would be over, the girls that had made his life a living hell in high school would all be gone, and the yellow-eyed man that came in his dreams and convinced him that he should do this had been right, it felt good to get back at them and they deserved what they got.

He still wasn't sure if the yellow-eyed man was real or just a dream, but Nathan believed in him. He had explained to Nathan how to use his invisibility purposefully, use it to get his revenge on those who had never considered that there was another human being behind his loathsome exterior. Nathan couldn't believe his good fortune the first time he tried his gift, whispering the words "You can't see me," and walking down the street without people staring at him, without seeing the fear and pity on their faces. That was amazing and wonderful. He started walking around town without his hood on, his scarred and pitted skin only visible to himself.

He had known all his life that his appearance was dreadful – how could he not? But it hadn't been his fault, he was just a baby when that fire tore through his home and killed his parents, leaving him grotesquely disfigured for life. So many times he had wished that their neighbor hadn't saved him from the inferno, that he had died along with his mother and father, but the yellow-eyed man had given him a new lease on life and he wasn't about to let that go.

Seeing Amy Shannon standing on the subway platform had brought back vivid memories of his first days at Lane Tech. She had been the ringleader of that petty little clique of three, giggling with her friends Bridget and Sara as she whispered the nickname 'Scarface' just loud enough for him to hear. Even though Amy had been the leader of their pack, it was Sara who had spread that awful moniker throughout the school and he would never forgive her for the four years of torment that nickname had brought him. He could still hear their taunts in his head:

_"Hey ,Scarface … what happened? Did you fall face-first into a meat grinder?"_

_"I heard that Scarface's parents set him on fire because he was born so ugly."_

_"That's not what I heard! Amy, Bridget and Sara say that he was the one that set the fire …"_

Pushing Amy onto the train tracks had been a catharsis, a release the likes of which he had never known before, and when that knife went into Bridget it had been equally as satisfying.

And now he would feel that rush again as soon as Sara came home. He would enjoy this, he would savor the look of fear and dread in her eyes. She would know how much she had hurt him when she had given him the 'Scarface' nickname. Maybe she would remember that his real name was Nathan.

His hearing had always been excellent and when he heard the sounds of the lock being opened, he perked up, tightening his grip on the knife handle and struggling to keep his nervous heartbeat under control. Sweat glistened on his forehead as the door slowly creaked open.

"You can't see me." Nathan whispered, raising the hood of his jacket over his head and waiting for Sara to walk in.

But when an older, scruffy-looking man with a beard entered followed by a younger man in a leather jacket and a taller guy with dark, shaggy hair, he froze in fear.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

His only hope was to stay as still and silent as possible. They wouldn't be able to see him, but they could still hear him if he made any noise. He held his breath as the older man turned to the tall guy with a shrug.

"Seems empty."

The tall man with the scruffy hair scanned the room and immediately his eyes landed on Nathan. For a moment their eyes connected and he was unable to move, too shocked that the man could see him.

That shouldn't have happened – the other two men clearly couldn't see him, how could this guy?

It wasn't until the tall one pointed and shouted, "There!" that the paralysis released Nathan and he darted down the narrow hallway of the apartment.

"Nathan! Stop!"

How did they know who he was?

He ducked into a small office room and slammed and locked the door behind him. The only window opened up to a fire escape leading down to the alleyway below, but the window was incredibly difficult to open and his heart raced at a frenzied pace while he attempted to pry it up as the strange men pounded on the door. It finally rose high enough for him to squeeze through just as the door to the bedroom smashed open, the tall man's boot still raised after kicking it.

In a panic now, Nathan dove out the window, landing hard on the metal grating. He rolled onto his feet and flew down the steps, pivoting so fast at each switchback that his feet barely touched the stairs. Heavy steps echoed on the metal close behind him. He jumped, skipping the last three steps, jarring his knees as he landed, but that didn't stop him from sprinting down the shadowed alley.

Nathan heard a voice shout, "Sam! Wait!" but he dare not look back as he ran. Half-way down the alley, he could feel the guy's breath on his neck and knew his shorter legs were no match for the impossibly long strides of his pursuer.

Suddenly hands grabbed his coat and he felt his body being tugged backwards while his feet lost contact with the pavement. He fell to the ground, the wind rushing from his lungs when his back made a painful connection with the cement. Before Nathan could recover, the man was lifting him bodily from the ground, hands grabbing fistfuls of his coat as he was hauled up and shoved backwards against the front of a dumpster.

"Why did you do it?" the long-haired man demanded, "Why did you kill those girls?" Wild and angry eyes bored into him as he slammed Nathan harder into unyielding metal.

How did he know about the girls? No one had seen him … this was impossible. Nathan could only gape, unable to answer.

If it hadn't been for the man ripping back Nathan's hood and startling at his disfigured appearance, Nathan might have never have remembered that he still had the knife in his pocket.

OOOOOOO

Sam hadn't been expecting the rough, scarred skin, the missing patches of hair, the thin, disfigured nose, missing eyebrows, and skin stretched too tight across his bones … Clearly the man had been burned badly at some point in his life. Nathan took quick advantage of Sam's shock at seeing the face that had been hidden under the hood and swung out with the blade, slashing through Sam's coat and shirt and piercing skin.

Despite the stinging sensation, Sam knew it was more of a scratch than anything else, but it was enough for him to stumble off-balance in surprise. Nathan immediately tackled Sam to the ground. The back of his head smacking the concrete plus the aftereffects of both his fractured skull and the vision-induced headache whited out the world for a moment.

Nathan raised the knife in one smooth motion and Sam had no adrenaline left to push Nathan off. It was reflex – survival instinct alone that sent Sam's hands up, his fingers wrapping around the blade and stopping it a mere hair's-breadth away from entering his chest.

Nathan struggled with all of his strength to press the knife down further. Underneath him, Sam grunted in pain, his hands refusing to let go of the knife's blade even as it sliced into his fingers and blood dripped onto his shirt.

Using every last ounce of energy left in his arms, Sam pushed back. His muscles were shaking, on the verge of failure as he battled to keep the knife from his chest, but it wasn't enough – Nathan had the better leverage and Sam's body was giving in to exhaustion.

The blade pierced his shirt over his right pectoral muscle. Surreally, Sam watched it pop through the outer layer of skin and slide into muscle. Sam groaned at the searing pain, but he refused to let go of the blade, he hadn't given up … not yet.

Nathan's mouth curled up into a contorted grin, killing Sam may not be have been what he had come for, but he was clearly enjoying it, delighting in the sight of the bright, red blood expanding around the end of the blade.

Sam dimly registered the sound of the gunshot echoing loudly against the walls in the alley. He shouldn't have been surprised by what happened next, but his field of view turned to horror as, in slow-motion, blood erupted outward from his attacker's head, pieces of bone, skin, and brains hitting Sam in the face. He felt Nathan's body jerk back violently with the impact and land on the pavement beside him, dead before he hit the ground.

A familiar voice was shouting his name, but his thoughts were too muddled and confused with shock for him to react. In the back of his mind he knew it was Dean that had fired the shot, but Nathan's dying momentum had pushed the knife deeper into his chest.

His slickly bloody hands stung but that didn't stop him from pulling the blade up and out. His first aid training told him that he shouldn't have done that – that it would only make the bleeding worse, but he didn't care, he wasn't about to leave it sticking out of his chest.

Sam breathed heavily through the growing pain as he attempted to disengage trembling fingers that had become embedded in the cutting edge of the blade. Finally getting his grasp to release it, he let his hands fall and heard the knife clatter to the ground.

He turned his throbbing head to the side, trying to focus his vision, and made out Nathan's blurry and scar-ravaged face. Naked, open eyes stared back at him lifelessly, a trail of blood snaking its way from the gaping wound in his temple and down the side of his uneven and mottled cheek. Sam shut his eyes, closing out the image of those eyes glaring at him accusingly as his body was overcome with pain and merciless exhaustion.

Someone was talking to him and he felt hands on his chest, applying a searing and lancing pressure over the wet spot spreading across his shirt. He heard barked commands and he knew it was Dean who was ordering him to open his eyes, but sleep was the more welcome option, he was so tired and Sam liked that idea better than Dean's so he let himself drift away.

OOOOO

Dean woke to the sound of the door opening and shutting just before a fresh cup of coffee was thrust under his nose. He glanced up and gratefully gave Bobby a brief nod before taking the warm cup in his hands and sipping the bitter brew. It certainly smelled better than it tasted, but it was caffeine and it would suffice to meet Dean's need to wake up fully.

"How is he?" Bobby asked, pointing towards the bed at the other end of the room.

"Still sleeping," Dean replied, wiping a hand across his stubbly face before he stretched, working out the kinks that had formed in his back after dozing off in the uncomfortable chair. He glanced across the room and studied Sam, drugged out of his gourd with painkillers. "I think he was more exhausted from exerting himself with that cracked skull of his than anything else."

Bobby walked across the room and carefully peeled back the bandage taped to Sam's bare chest and made a grunt of satisfaction, "Well … looks like the stitches I put in are holding and there's no sign of infection. Kid's damned lucky it wasn't very deep."

"Were you able to take care of things?" Dean asked, since Bobby had just returned from tasking himself with cleaning up the scene and the body left behind.

"Yeah …" Bobby said solemnly without offering any further explanation. Not that Dean really needed to know – he knew Bobby would make sure there was no evidence left behind that could be traced back to them.

Dean nodded and drank more coffee. Sam was going to be fine physically. What worried him now was how Sam was going to react when he woke up. He hadn't had a choice when he killed Nathan – he would have killed Sam.

But would his brother see it that way?

Dean pushed aside his darkening thoughts and watched as Bobby grabbed one of Sam's limp hands and inspected it as well. "His hands and fingers are gonna hurt like hell, but I think they should heal okay too."

"That Sara girl … I talked to her," Bobby changed subjects. "I told her I was a cop investigating the break-in at her apartment and that Nathan had been killed while fleeing the scene. She remembered him from high school. He was apparently badly burned in a fire that killed his parents when he was six months old. Sound familiar to you?"

"Unfortunately," Dean agreed, trying to hide the gnawing anxiety and guilt over killing the guy. In many ways Nathan was like him and Sam – they had lost so much to that demon, yet Nathan had had it much worse, not only losing both parents in the fire, but enduring the pain of his injuries alone after that."

Dean was pretty shaken by the whole thing himself. It didn't take a genius to know that Sam would see himself mirrored in that psycho, even if Sam was as far from becoming a killer as Dean was from earning a PhD. But with Dad's words still rattling around in his head about the possibility of killing his brother one day, taking Nathan out felt one step closer to a reality that he didn't want to approach.

"What'd she have to say about him?" Dean pressed.

"Well … she regrets it now, but admitted that she and her two friends, Amy and Bridget, had been pretty crappy to him back then and had given him grief about his scars. Guess we can see now what his motivation for killing was."

"A little overboard for getting picked on, don't ya think? Like Carrie at the prom ..."

Bobby grunted in agreement, but added with a pointed and knowing expression, "Sometimes words can hurt more than punches, Dean."

Dean hid his eyes from Bobby. Yeah, he knew he had said some pretty awful things to his brother the last couple of weeks and he wasn't too proud of himself for being such a dickhead.

Dean looked up when a groan issued from Sam's bed and he was on his feet a second later. Sam mumbled something incoherently then flung an arm over his face before Dean could get to him.

"You say something, Sam?"

Sam shook his head which caused another deep throated moan to come forth. Dean reached for the bottle of Vicodin and shook out a couple of pills before grabbing the bottle of water sitting on the nightstand next to him.

He put a hand on his brother's shoulder, "Think you can sit up?" he asked and Sam mumbled a 'yes.' Dean helped him up, one hand on an elbow guiding him until he was propped up enough on the pillows to take the offered pills and swallow a few mouthfuls of water.

Sam leaned back after that, his head sinking into the pillow again, but awake enough to keep his eyes at half-mast.

"How you feeling?" Dean asked, even though it was a stupid a question and Sam was obviously in a lot of pain.

"I'll live," Sam muttered.

"I guess you heard what Bobby said about Nathan?" Dean asked, taking a seat beside Sam on the bed.

Sam nodded, "Yeah … I wish we could have helped him or at least tried to talk to him."

"I know …" Dean wanted nothing more than to avoid this subject, but he knew Sam would bring it up if he didn't and it was better to just get it over, like ripping off a band-aid. "I couldn't see him, Sam. I would have just winged him if I had … but, all I saw was that knife and … "

"I know, Dean … it's okay."

"It doesn't feel okay …" Dean swallowed hard, "He was a human and he was …"

"Like me?" Sam softly finished for him.

"You're not like him, Sam." Dean shot back forcefully before reining in his temper and softening his tone. "Look … I know you wanted to find some answers from this kid …"

Sam cut Dean off short, "I don't think I would have gotten anything from him anyway. I saw the look in his eyes …" Sam blinked sluggishly, his voice low and husky. "He was too far gone – too filled with hate to ever listen to anything I might have had a chance to say to him."

"All the same … m'sorry …" Thinking about how he'd let himself get so wrapped up in his own misery that he lost himself in a bottle of Jack every night and how he had been too drunk to be there for his brother when Sam needed him made him add quietly, "I'm sorry about a lot of things."

Dean ducked his head down, not daring to make eye contact with his brother and he silently vowed to never let himself lose control and get so wasted again. He didn't expect Sam to forgive him but, when he felt a hand land on his knee, he knew Sam understood.

Dean looked up and met Sam's glistening eyes.

His little brother nodded, "I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have taken off without you."

A ghost of a grin began to creep up on Dean's face and he was glad that the sharing and caring time was coming to an end, he wasn't overly comfortable with the stinging sensation he felt in his eyes. He cleared his throat in order to push down the lump that threatened to expand in it, "So … we're good then?"

"Yeah." Sam sighed with a yawn.

"Good … then why don't you go back to sleep, Sammy?"

" 'Kay," Sam replied, already closing his eyes and drifting off, but before he was completely taken under by the wonders of modern pharmaceuticals, Sam spoke one last time, "Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"At least we saved the girl … We made it in time to keep Sara from getting hurt," Sam pointed out quietly, "I guess being a psychic freak can come in handy sometimes."

"You're not a freak, Sam …" Dean countered, carefully ruffling his brother's hair, "You're a dork, yes … and a stubborn ass … but not a freak."

**The End**


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